The Wall of Winnipeg and Me by Mariana Zapata

It had only been open about three years, and the owner had spared no expense on any square inch of the gym. The building itself was new, nondescript, and easy to miss unless you knew what you were looking for.

Located in the business warehouse district on the outskirts of Dallas, the facility had the equipment necessary for all levels of weightlifting, plyometric exercises, calisthenics, strongman, and powerlifting. This place smells like armpits, I thought as I made my way past the cardio equipment at the facility where Aiden had been training at since we’d gotten back from Colorado. That had been pretty much every week since I’d gotten hired.

Maybe, just maybe, he was thinking about all the times he’d been a jerk to me and was regretting it like all the times he’d chewed me out or yelled at me because Aiden wanted something done that frustrated him. He tented his hands and hid his mouth behind them. Leaning forward, Trevor planted his elbows on what I could assume was his desk. Something about him just made me want to abort mission each time we had to interact.Īt one point, I really tried figuring out what it was about him I didn’t like, and it always came back to the same reasons: he was snobby, but mainly he just gave off massive amounts of asshole-ish vibes. While it took a lot for me to dislike someone, Aiden’s manager was one of those people I avoided like the plague whenever possible. Trevor gave me a look that said he didn’t even remotely believe me, and I found myself not really giving much of a crap what he thought. “I am,” I insisted calmly as I watched the man on my laptop screen. Cancel it,” he repeated as if I’d gone deaf the first time he’d said it. The man in question, who was on the verge of either a bloody, imaginary death or a carefully crafted one that involved dish soap, his food, and a long period of time, made a noise from behind the bowl of quinoa salad in front of him, which was big enough to feed a family of four. It’s what my mom used to do to us when we were little and would pout. When the edges of his mouth turned down, got tight, and his brown eyes went heavy lidded, all it made me want to do was stick my finger up his nose. Grumbling only got me the look-that infamous, condescending expression that had gotten Aiden into more than one fight in the past. “Aiden,” I grumbled, even though I knew better.

One day long after I quit, so no one would suspect me.

For two years, the man known as The Wall of Winnipeg couldn’t find it in him to tell her good morning or congratulate her on her birthday.

The Wall of Winnipeg and Me by Mariana Zapata